Stoicism
by Gilded Blue
Summary: Oh, the suffering you have caused.


Could it be? A one shot?!

**Stoicism**

Stoicism. You have no idea what that word means to me. You have no idea. Stoicism means that no one can hurt me better than I can. No one can touch me. No one can get that reaction, no one can have that except me.

I find it to be so insane. I find it to be so maddening that _you _had to ruin that all. Am I afraid to throw a few punches, or am I strong enough to take some? Cherry trees and cherry lips and _just what have you done to me?_

I am no longer a good person. Cannot reserve that right. I am alright with that. So are you, as a matter of fact. I think it's so disgusting that you think that you're still a good person. After the downfall and after the rain and after everything, I want you to know that you are not a good person. And you love it. You're such a contradiction, it's almost disgusting, but here I am, pen in hand, chewing on my tongue, getting flustered as I write--

_Only you can do that._

Nothing really inspires emotion in me anymore. Nothing hits quite as hard as it could have. After he and I broke up, before you, after I sat there at four in the morning one night, just thinking and crying and hating everything and wishing that the world would turn black and blue with bruises that I'd inflicted, oh after the dwelling and the sulking I ended up feeling empty.

So empty. So numb. It's really rather curious, isn't it?

I'm self destructive in every way. I'm with you, aren't I? You love me, because I am a disaster and you need to be around challenges, you need the disaster because you need to make it all better. You're like a doctor, you can't stand to see something broken. You've got to fix it. You've got to fix everything. You can't fix me. You won't fix this.

I won't let you.

I like it here, I like it way too much to ever want to leave it. A person does not break, my lover and my friend, no, I am not broken. The absence of "whole" as you would put it does not necessarily imply that I need or want your help. You cannot complete me. You cannot fill this cup. But I can fill yours. I'm intoxicating, aren't I? I know it, the fiery look in your eyes, the way that as days pass by things, life, the terrible redundancy of it all, of the _wake up and brush your teeth and wash your face and eat and smile and give half hearted greetings to people you really don't give a damn about and smile and wave and blow bubbles with your family and then train train train and fight for something that's never going to return because you cannot stand to believe that you have outlasted your youth and your usefulness and no one cares about you anymore, and you could possibly contemplate the fact that it's nearly time for you to just lay down and die, you're so one dimensional and you know it and you hate yourself for it and I bet it's absolutely maddening and you swallow bile down when you think about yourself and come to realize that you hate yourself, for you are a relic. _

I know what you are, you're sad and tormented by the fact that life is bleak and there is no way to escape that feeling that never goes away, that you should be more and should be worth more.

You call me bitter. Look, I'm dwelling now. You call me mean. Those words, they mean nothing to me. But they mean everything to me because everything you do means something to me: you lift a finger and it holds some sort of divine significance and I want to just kill everything because I swore to not be one of your worshippers. You're a saint to the rest of the world, you will not be a hero or a celebrity or God's blessed child or the chosen one, you will not be my protector or my anything like that. Not to me. Why do you have everything? Why do you have everything? You should not have everything. You cannot have everything.

_Oh, the suffering you have caused._

Those are the words that you spoke to me. Your voice sounded so sad, it echoed inside of my head for days. It truly has been biting and scratching and writhing within my very being, thank you so very much for reminding me that I am a disaster. Don't you understand how cruel this is, what you've done to my soul? I feel black inside. Nothing. Hatred, perhaps. I was never meant to be this way. There is something inside of my blood that is shrieking for greatness. That is why you and I, we get on so well. Because we both need so much more than this. So much more than everything. I do indeed believe that reality should rot for all the pain it's put us through. A wretched pair, you and I, or at least that is how I feel about it. But I know you and I know that you are carefree and unconcerned. I know that deep down, behind everything you are still willing to see the bright side of it all.

I still see that you are a bad person. You tell them, you tell them all that you are simply trying to fix me. That you are simply trying to correct what went wrong, to alter my course, and that is why we spend so much time together. I don't think they buy it-I know my father doesn't and it's only a matter of time before he figures it out and kills us both. I growl a little bit, I don't think your wife buys it either. I hate her and you know it. I think that that is perhaps the thing that sets you apart and really does allow me to label you as a bad person. You want me to be jealous of her. You like seeing that little glint in my perfect eye, you like knowing that if I had the chance I would permanently make sure she's out of your life and off of your mind for the rest of eternity so that I can make you mine.

Perhaps in my own way, this is _me _trying to fix _you. _Love and hatred and there is really no harm in trying to get to know someone better, now is there? I know. I probably seem a little bit disjointed here. Detached or perhaps too attached or not attached correctly. The point is that I am not being coherent. That's okay though, I think you understand here that I am obsessed, obsessed with you, and I absolutely despise you for it because you knew when this all started that the one thing that I absolutely had to preserve was my pride. My sense of dignity, my sense of greatness and intensity. Masculinity, if you will. _Heh. Heh._

You ask me why it has to be this way. You want things to be innocent and sweet and you want to repair as I want to damage. The answer is very simple and very complex all at once. Perhaps in my own way I do in fact believe that I don't deserve this sweetness, to have a man wrap his arms around me and tell me that I am the single most beautiful thing in the world, to hear things like I am worth fighting for or that I am worth anything. I am aware of the fact that I am ugly, you scoffed at me the one time I commented on my self-image and I would never make the mistake of telling you how I feel about the way that I look again. Of course they all tell me that I'm beautiful, but _what else would they say?_

I know. You've been sleeping with me, so why not? I digress, though. To return to my point, perhaps it is because of my own lack of ability to believe in my self-worth. But then again maybe I'd just get bored with it and bored with you and you'd get bored with me if I suddenly began to comply. But if you stopped asking me to comply, then I would get bored. You see how our relationship dangles between these fine strings? It's disgusting, the lack of stability.

I love it as I love you. Or maybe I love it as I don't love you. I am not really sure, because I honestly have not really ever thought about whether or not I loved you. And I really enjoy that luxury, not really knowing or caring or having to be burdened with such knowledge because I assure you, if I did love you, it would be more of a burden than not loving you--

Oh my dear, I do believe I have strayed from the point at hand once more. It's a good thing I will never send you this or allow you to read it. Allow me to tell you right now that I think you are so fake and I am one day going to bring out the real man inside of you, or perhaps he is a beast.

You want to please me. I know it and I see it and when we have sex from the way that your fingertips twitch over my eager breasts, I can see that you would do absolutely anything for me, endure any amount of taunting or cruelty, mental or physical, even though your strength clearly outweighs my own. You could hold me down or twist my arm and make me squeal and beg in pain if you really, ever wanted to, but you simply lack the amount of creativity, or perhaps you really do lack that cruelty (but I doubt it) to be able to do it.

Don't get me wrong. I honestly do not want to call you spineless. But I do anyway, every day, over and over again. Your eyes are constantly whining that I am a dominant person and that you are neither. You are quite passive, you don't like conflict, you claim, but if you are Saiya-Jin honest and true, how can that be? You look uncomfortable for a second, tangling your hand in your hair, giving me that careless grin as your mind tries to grab an answer out of the air. I'm looking at you with a slight frown because I know that you don't know. I never asked you to dominate me, not all out I don't think, but I think it's obvious that I was expecting more fire from you, I was expecting that you would have a breaking point and I could hit it and then we would reach that climax, and then I could feel what it is to go to that place, that physical and mental place and thinking about it is so pleasurable, it's frightening, where you are who you really are, and where I am who I really am and we just don't care and nothing really matters and no one really cares and perhaps it is quite obvious that I am absolutely desperate for someone to not take my crap anymore.

I want you to pull my hair. I want you to shake me or choke me or throw me down on the bed and not wait for me to strip. I want you to rip my clothes off and be selfish for once and I don't know why you're holding back on me. No, you would rather cradle me in your arms, snuggle your cheek into the crook of mine, or perhaps even fall deep into a gentle slumber on my abdomen. I can feel just the slightest evidence of facial hair on the soft skin. As you snore and your chin tilts ever so slightly in your sleep, I can feel the rough, it's almost like tiny needles pressing into my body, and I sigh and pet your back a little bit.

I like it when you push me. I like it when you pull me down on top of you and your lips form a cocky smile--not really a smirk, there's something gentle in your taunting eyes, but the air thickens and I feel my heart racing because you are so big and suddenly I am aware of the fact that I am quite frail-looking in your grasp. I like it when you bite me, when the soft touch of your lips is eclipsed by sharp teeth and sharp pain licking at my flesh, tingling up my spine, and I give a gasp and you laugh low in your throat. I love it when the blood comes up.

What is it about you that makes me cling to you so?

You treat me like a princess. One time, just to spite you I cut my ankle. It was hard and deep, the blood gushed out and you stared in horror. This was the moment that you came closest to that breaking point, you were absolutely enraged, furious, that I had gone so far as to "hurt" myself just to hurt you. Ah, stoicism, my love, for I could not feel a thing. But you were rushing about, med kit this, bandages that. It's surprising, after all the battles you have been in, you could not look me in the eye and just shrug. Even so, the energy and your panic intrigued me. You nuzzled my leg. You kissed the arch of my foot, your obsidian eyes blazing in my direction. Determination. That look again, and I felt the same old argument coming back onto me, _I will fix you one day. _

But to my surprise and delight you said nothing. No, you let my leg down rather gently, but there was something different about your grip. It was possessive, firm, and without losing eye contact your shaking frame, clearly still angered (and it was so invigorating! you were so alluring those moments!) As quickly as you'd gotten up, you were leaning back down and pressing your full weight to my body. I gave out a bit of a rough whimper despite myself. Challenging my authority, were you? I guess it's true when they say that I really do live up to my technical royal status. Why shouldn't you live up to yours then? I do not understand. Make me understand.

But I was distracted, then and always, by the way that you kissed me. This was a wild, selfish display of savage lips seeking to pull something out of an unwilling soul. I am so uncompromising sometimes, not quite yet to give you the authority-waiting for you to prove yourself worthy.

Your fist balled, trapping some of the fabric of my top between your fingers. I froze under you, you pulled, it ripped. It hurt, even, a little bit. The irritating rustle of bedsheets, we arrived in some surreal place. My breast in your mouth, you suckled and I closed my eyes briefly to listen to the noise for a few queer seconds, and then my hand touching your back, stroking your skin and your rough arms trying to absolutely possess me. You wanted me to give into you in every way, I could tell. _Saiya-Jin. _I taunted.

_I am a good man! _You bellowed, but your teeth were ripping into my neck and I cried out in panic and surprise as you broke the skin with relentless glee. You took the moment to sit up for a few moments. I do not move, I know that your eyes are following the flow of blood gently trickling over my neck, down to your sheets, and for a second you hesitate, worried that you let yourself go. You move your hands to pull your shirts over your head in one swift movement, let them drop heavy to the floor, but all in all, you seemed quite hysterical at the moment, running one hand, and then another, trembling and muttering, _I am a good man, you just make me---_

It feels so curious, warm blood strolling down your neck. I could feel it curve around, and then finally drip a little bit to the bed. You were struggling to remove your pants when your eyes finally glittered back to the trail. You bent over to lick it up, part of you was practically purring. I flinched just a little bit when your tongue dipped over the actual wound, and the jolt must have moved from me to you because once again you were moving dangerously fast over my body, and your hands were everywhere and nowhere at once.

We're done with playing. Your hands slide up the most delicate region, my sticky thigh, and slowly, two fingers, three, flexing slightly inside of me, straightening out, the sensation of your thumb rubbing up against my clitoris leaves me to gasp and my nails dig into your shoulders and you scoff, let out a brutal and harsh noise indicating your amusement and I was so irritated to find that I was slowly becoming putty in your hands that might have been older but were not necessarily more skilled. The outrage that I felt could barely mask the pleasure indicated on my face. My unstable breathing, abdomen shaking, trembling fingers digging deeper in his skin.

He's getting excited, he likes the taste of victory as any Saiya-Jin would and my body betrayed my mind: I had submitted and if he thought it then he was right. His hand moved away and as though in a trance I took it into my mouth, swirling my tongue about each individual digit. It's a curious thing, tasting yourself. Curious, almost, but I was more interested in the salts on his fingers, brushing the tips very lightly with the edge of my tooth. He'd become quite stiff, glaring down at me. I moved away, giving each tip one last kiss and I could see him jerk just so slightly as my breath danced on it, _I really cannot handle a mouth near my fingers. _

_I really don't care what you can handle. _He seemed all worked up now, and I vaguely acknowledged the fact that it really was almost bizarre how power is handed this way or that so easily. I pulled up as much as my body would let me to lick his bottom lip. He was trembling and I could hear the soft groan as his eyes fluttered up. _When you do that all I can think about are your lips around my-_

_Stop playing around. _I hissed in response. There was something about his talking to me, about actually speaking his desire out pleasure out and the tone of his voice, which was somewhere between soft and dazed that absolutely drove me crazy and sent lightening into my abdomen. It inspired every sort of excitement possible, and I cringed to think that if he knew that more than his hands and more than his lips, his voice could drive me to any edge at any moment... My reign of control would be over. I could suppress most sensations, seem bored when he was killing himself to get some sort of reaction out of using his mouth over my body, but not this. There was no way to hide from it, and I won't lie that when he shouts or hisses, I will always become eager to hear what he has to say. Complete and total attention at his feet. His voice has that power over me. Perhaps it is because his voice is very much like his eyes: He cannot contain the emotion inside of it. Open, he is open.. something I will never be.

Bodies shuffle, I am on top of him, suppressing the initial pain at his entrance. I grind my hips and at first he just watches me. It's an odd feeling that for these moments I'm just on display for him to look at and though he could very well touch me he doesn't. Our eyes make contact and I quickly shift mine away. He always seems to like looking me in the eye, but I am not his wife. I do not want sweet or beautiful sex. We are not "making love"-this is not supposed to be an emotional moment and it is best if he is kept in the here and not in those abstract feelings I can tell his heart wants to associate with the actions. His hands finally grasp my hips to help me move. I look down, at us, the motion, him. me. It's nearly mesmerizing, and my eyes lift back up to his chest. There must have been some look of crazed desire on my face because he's blushing.

Bodies shuffle. I'm laying on my stomach, a hand-full of your wife's pillow, and yes I love that twisted feeling that I am taking her place in your bed for the night and she has been replaced, but it doesn't really matter. This happens relatively often, sex, moan, lick, bite, play, shift positions and go at it again. Your hands were twirling over my back and I could tell you were still angry. Your voice was letting out haughty grunts as you moved. Now, there is always an element of pain in sex with you. The tightness, the feeling of me squeezing around you, it is something I would never give up, but there is also this bold pain that does not fade out for several minutes. I don't mind, we all know I like the pain.

You've rolled off of me, but we're not done. I give you an odd look from behind my shoulders, and then, a thought: I climbed down your body, licking the curve of your muscular abdomen faintly before going to work. I eyed your member, still stiff and you shift your hips in either anxiety or anticipation. I touched you lightly, kissed the shaft and pulled away abruptly. The look on your face: deprived, irritated child. You couldn't stop squirming, and I had to fight to not laugh at you, which seemed to be feeding your humiliation. I suckled the underside briefly, moving my hands over your--you. Your body, your thighs and your ass and this and that, and I could almost hear you hiccuping out gasps although I hadn't even taken you into my mouth yet, and to your greatest annoyance, I didn't. In fact, at that moment despite my own desires I stood up, chewing on the side of my smallest nail as I stared hard at you, curious, daring and was willing to leave the bed and you just to know you would be lying there in such a pathetic state--

You're faster than I am. The door only opened a millimeter before you slammed it back shut. You were twitching ever so slightly, if you had a tail it would be thrashing back and forth. I could see there was something entirely, frighteningly destructive in your eyes as you breathed insults my way. And you would shout, _Look at me, look at what I've become... _and it was nearly chilling to the bone to hear you rasp out in the darkness. You truly seemed a tortured creature. You pushed me against something hard. A wall? A dresser? I wasn't looking. Your hands grabbed my hips. In protest and to hold myself up, I wrapped my arms around your neck. We're finally staring each other in the eyes. You can tell I'm unnerved. You smile at me, your teeth look sharper.

There is something so animistic and gruff about your manner now. Arrogant and cocky, even. You positioned yourself before me once more, my legs slid over your hips. I thought we were going to break the wall. Release is such a sweet thing. Mine came before yours, what a gentleman. But none of that "crying out names in chorus" nonsense. I think the only way you could tell was the sudden, sharp grunt-my nails deep enough into your shoulder to break the skin, and then a soft, sudden release of the grasp. You came shortly after. You're always noisy. As you groaned, you held yourself to me. It was so tight, I almost felt suffocated. Our bodies mingling together, though. Nothing could ever feel better than that.

You looked insanely tired. Circles seemed to just appear under your eyes and you nearly collapsed into the bed. This is my indication that it's time to go. You ask me to stay. And I know you, despite everything you want to hold me just for a little while and pretend that it was a sweet bonding moment we just had. I won't allow it. I'm tired myself, but I won't allow that. I'm afraid of being in love with you, so where you constantly try to make sex out to be romance, I constantly try to suck the romance out of the moment. I notice I'm still breathing hard. You could have been rougher.

I just want to make sure it'll come out one day: that monster that's there inside of you. I will taunt you. I will make you angry. This is my right.

There is something about receiving blows and giving them. The hits, the kicks, and the biting and scratching and writhing and screaming and begging and needing it all, it is all indicative of my absolute need for something by far more amazing than what is already there. Something harsher. Harder. Deeper. That you are so strong, second to no one I hear, and I can take the worst you throw at me.

Stoicism. I will take it and any of the pain that you can throw at me and it will make me stronger.

**sto·i·cism** (stō'ĭ-sĭz'əm)  
n.

Indifference to pleasure or pain; impassiveness.

The doctrines or philosophy of the Stoics. A philosophy that flourished in ancient Greece and Rome. Stoics believed that people should strictly restrain their emotions in order to attain happiness and wisdom; hence, they refused to demonstrate either joy or sorrow.

It is who I am, Gokou. It is who you are.

* * *

How do you like it? 


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